


Tensio in Ortum

by rebelcongeriem



Series: Heart Like a Wheel [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, But Lucius makes it doubly hard to do so, F/M, Narcissa likes to pretend to be unaffected by like everything, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 23:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16356140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelcongeriem/pseuds/rebelcongeriem
Summary: Newcomer Narcissa agrees to partner with seasoned pro, Lucius, in order to get a jump-start on her modeling career.Cross-posted from tumblr. (weaslcywheezes)





	Tensio in Ortum

**Author's Note:**

> Let’s pretend I know a little something something about modeling. B/C I so obviously don’t. But you have to admit, the setting is oddly fitting for the aristocratic duo, amirite? On a completely random side-note, however: I wrote this one nine months ago, but decided to just now post it. Better late than never, though, eh?

  
Narcissa gazes across the table at the well-dressed blond seated beside her manager, the sharp, aristocratic planes of his face and the finely arched brow he raises at her cool perusal leaving her with the distinct impression that he’s used to garnering stares. Perhaps even expects it on some level.

And why not?

The man is elegantly, _irritatingly_ gorgeous and he _so_ obviously knows it.

By now, he must be used to all manner of sycophants and aspiring models flocking to his side. As one of the highest-paid models in the industry, it’s to be expected. Since, as she’s recently come to realize, most newcomers would rather ride the coattails of another’s success than try for a successful launch themselves when, as is often the case, there’s a good, conceivable chance they’ll _flop_ —like a pancake that just missed the griddle—before they’ve managed to wedge a single foot in the door of golden opportunities and promising results.

It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there—if you’re not strong enough to survive the first hurdle, you’ll fade into obscurity, a mere shadow of the vibrancy and charisma that are necessary tools to make it big in a trade such as this one.

And after?

It’s anyone’s game then.

“—be there tomorrow at five.” The words, uttered in a monotonous tone reminiscent of her third grade teacher—an unpleasant reminder, derived from even more unpleasant memories of harsh scoldings and wagging fingers—derails her train of thought, and she turns an opaque look on her manager, who’s currently in the process of shaking hands with Lucius Malfoy.

“I beg your pardon?” Despite her confusion, Narcissa conceals it well under a reserved expression, the corners of her lips curving slightly downward as her attention ping-pongs between Mr. Marsh and Malfoy … until the cool blue of her eyes finally settles on Marsh’s round, ruddy face, her frown deepening upon catching sight of the gleam of satisfaction—deep, almost feverish, the look of a fanatic—in his beady eyes.

This feeling of being left out of the loop is one she can’t help but dislike.

 _No_ , _not_ _dislike_.

 _ **Abhor**_.

Marsh flashes a sickly sweet smile, self-satisfaction practically oozing from his pores—professional wheedler that he is, he isn’t above prostrating himself to get results. In that way, she supposes he’s the best at what he does. “Mr. Malfoy has been kind enough to agree to a photo session, provided we finish by eleven.”

“He has?” Skepticism coats her words.

“He has,” Malfoy murmurs, the low, melodic sound sending a wave of awareness crashing over her, threatening to drag her under.

But she refuses to fall victim to the tingling heat beginning to spread over her skin, causing goosebumps to prickle up her spine.

Her job is important to her—and as such, she’s determined that nothing will stand in the way of it, least of all an attraction she may or may not harbor for the man.

“Fine,” Narcissa says evenly, accompanying it with a curt nod.

All she has to do is endure the best she can—endure one dreadfully early morning of companion photo shoots and pandering bootlickers.

Perhaps it’s a good thing then that enduring is what _she_ does best.

* * *

 

Stifling a jaw-cracking yawn, Narcissa casts a disgruntled glare in the direction of the clock, more than happy to lay half the blame for her fatigue at its ticking hands.

He of the perfect hair and the shiver-inducing voice, however, bears responsibility for the other half.

Because, like it or not (at least as far as she’s concerned), it’s _his_ fault she couldn’t fall asleep last night. His fault that her mind was a constant whirl of chimerical thoughts and unfounded imaginings—

—His fault that she lay awake throughout most of the night, staring up at the ceiling as she tirelessly fought off the demon of insomnia, striving for even a sliver of short-term forgetfulness—or at the very least, indifference—for the sake of the very much coveted sleep of the dead.

But in the end—despite how valiant a struggle she put up—she couldn’t forcibly shut her brain off, finding herself thinking of Malfoy and their photo session the harder and longer she struggled to forget the way his very presence had addled her wits, the cavalier look in his eyes and the slight, teasing curve of his lips a threat to her hard-won composure—as it stirred within her a deep-seated curiosity to taste those firm lips.

A curiosity she has absolutely no intention of slaking.

“You look well.”

 _Speak of the devil_.

Startled by the suddenness with which that casual observation—delivered in a silky tone—makes its entrance, her hands curl into fists, the tips of her perfectly manicured nails biting into the flesh of her palms, leaving small, crescent-shaped marks in the wake of her startlement.

But when she slowly turns to face him, a clever retort poised on the tip of her tongue, the words flee for parts unknown the moment her narrow-eyed gaze lands on his chest. His _bare_ chest.

A jolt of stupefaction hits her like a bucket of ice-cold water.

He’s naked from the waist up, the sight of his bare chest nearly rendering her speechless.

But it isn’t nearly enough to curb her gasp, the sharp inhalation shuddering past her parted lips as she gawks at that proud, unabashed display of virility.

The planes and ridges of his chest taper down to the flat of his stomach, a small trail of baby-fine, blond hair disappearing into the waistband of his brand-name jeans—jeans that sit low on his hips, emphasizing their leanness.

Beyond shocked to find all that pale, smooth skin on display, a soft, red flush tints her cheeks, and she hastily averts her eyes, disgusted with herself for reacting to his state of undress with anything less than stoicism.

To react at all shows a certain level of … immaturity.

Even if she can’t help but admire the pulchritude and elegance of his physique. _Lord knows she doesn’t want to_.

Because, as she knows from experience, some men look better with their clothes on.

Not Lucius Malfoy, though.

He falls into a category all his own—equally appealing and vexatious, sometimes more vexatious than appealing … but mostly because of the effect he has on her.

 _Blast it all_.

“Naturally,” she replies after a time—after finally finding her voice again. And with the rediscovery of her voice, aloofness tries its damnedest to slip through the cracks of her crumbling composure. But the slight breathlessness of her tone belies the outer calm of her demeanor. “You don’t need to look so surprised.”

He looks nothing of the kind, but that won’t stop her from pointing out that falsehood. Anything to drag her attention away from the broad width of his shoulders, the delightful sight setting a swarm of butterflies loose in her stomach.

“You misunderstood,” he rumbles, taking a few steps closer until he’s close enough for his chin to graze the soft crown of her hair.

Her heartbeat accelerates at his close proximity, the organ thumping hard against her rib cage, the sensation such that it has found a home in the visible, throbbing pulse of her neck.

"I simply meant that you look well-rested. Good dreams, I hope?"

Flustered, she shakes her head, silky blonde strands brushing lightly against his chin as she unconsciously takes a step back. He’s obviously playing her—he probably _likes_ making her nervous; maybe even enjoys the idea of getting under her skin—given that her team has yet to tackle the ever time-consuming task of beautification. Something _all_ models must contend with sooner or later. 

(Drab Chic is _so_ not the way to go.)

“Why so nervous? I won’t bite,” he adds, long, elegant fingers encircling her wrist and gently guiding her to stand in the loose circle of his arms. An easily breakable circle should she wish to escape. “At least not in public.”

Her flush deepens, but she doesn’t resist his hold, too distracted by the way her skin tingles as soon as it comes into contact with his fingers to give a thought to just how easily he brings her obstinacy to heel.

“Unless …” His voice trails off as he makes a point of looking her up and down, his heavy-lidded eyes studying her reaction, clearly satisfied by what he’s managed to glean from her gaze. “You want me to.”

“I— _no_ ,” Narcissa immediately denies, refusing to allow the mental image of Lucius Malfoy _biting_ her to linger in her thoughts.

But she fails.

She fails _**big time**_.

(And it’s all his fault—like always.)

“Ms. Black, you’re needed in make-up,” one of the assistants interjects before Lucius has the chance to respond, oblivious to the rising tension between the two models.

She breathes a soft sigh of relief at the interruption, feeling oddly lightheaded as she turns away from him—but not before he leans down to whisper into her ear, “This is far from over, _Cissa_.”

 _Lord help her_.


End file.
